The poetry thread
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The Tuesday Afternoon All-Staff
(for Bill Watterson)With chairs and tables ready
They shuffled through the doors:
The corporate colts, the suited dolts,
The vain attention whoresHellos polite and petty
The rabble took their seats
Remarks prepared were curtly shared
In white collated sheetsHis Powerpoint as reference
The lead began to talk
He said and smiled, "I promise I'll
Be mindful of the clock."His cohorts waved indifference
As pastries swept the room
With platters passed and sweets amassed
More coffee was consumed"In short," the speaker lectured,
And lightly twitched an eye
"Our profit's low. For us to grow,
I need you all to die.""I've made it quick," he gestured,
And held his coffee up,
"On my behalf the conference staff
Have laced the paper cups.""The food as well," he carried on,
As nervous laughter spread
But heaving loud, a VP bowed--
His face a mottled redThe speaker motioned, "When you're gone,
You aren't to be replaced.
So when you weigh staff severance pay
With staff that's been erased..."He shrugged, the room erupting now
With agonizing moans,
"The plan appears a shock to hear,
But know you're not alone:"This fiscal on, the Board has vowed:
'Cut all redundant costs.'
It's not just you--my living, too,
Would constitute a loss."The sickly few still standing up
Collapsed and hit the floor
"An hour ahead," the speaker said,
"How helpful for the Board!"Now sipping from his coffee cup,
He promptly changed the screen
"Up next is George with Corporate Purge:
What 'Diminution' Means." -
And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland -
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
âDylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
âDylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood
That was on the other side of the Child's Christmas in Wales I listened to as a kid.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
No, it certainly isnât. Endeavoring to obscure your message is just pretension. Clarity doesnât necessarily mean being obvious, but if you donât get what youâre talking about across, itâs like a lot of abstract art. âWhat does it mean TO YOU?â
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The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
Iâm alone in the second-floor bedroom
Iâm exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside meâ
Every night, it's been always the sameâ
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.âSo you're thinking of going?â he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
âIâm thinking of sleep,â I say, sneering
âI canât deal with your shit anymore.âWhen he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
âMy shit?â He repeats with a smile.
âMy âshit,â I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?ââJust as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!â I exclaimed
âI spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?âFor a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that Iâll never be famous
But at least some would know that I livedâKnow when âhopeâ is a splash in the toilet?
When your âcallingâ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetryâs dead as your eye!âThe world has moved onâwords are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!âI don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collectâIâm no internet-famous sensation
Iâm not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.âThe other just raises his eyebrows.
âI take it youâe finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Canât you ever express something new?âYou sound like my wife when sheâs angryâ
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
Itâs amazing you havenât gone hoarse.âMy birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping youâd prosper and grow
But Wisdomâs offended that Memory tended
To you, but youâve lost what you know.
So why donât they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.âAs two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, heâs still and heâs silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
Thatâs where youâll go
And where youâll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
Youâre more than dust
Youâve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
Youâre last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
Theyâre buried, then
Theyâre never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
Itâs heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
Youâll join the dark
But what youâve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
Itâs never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once Iâd heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook again -
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
Iâm alone in the second-floor bedroom
Iâm exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside meâ
Every night, it's been always the sameâ
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.âSo you're thinking of going?â he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
âIâm thinking of sleep,â I say, sneering
âI canât deal with your shit anymore.âWhen he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
âMy shit?â He repeats with a smile.
âMy âshit,â I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?ââJust as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!â I exclaimed
âI spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?âFor a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that Iâll never be famous
But at least some would know that I livedâKnow when âhopeâ is a splash in the toilet?
When your âcallingâ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetryâs dead as your eye!âThe world has moved onâwords are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!âI don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collectâIâm no internet-famous sensation
Iâm not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.âThe other just raises his eyebrows.
âI take it youâe finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Canât you ever express something new?âYou sound like my wife when sheâs angryâ
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
Itâs amazing you havenât gone hoarse.âMy birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping youâd prosper and grow
But Wisdomâs offended that Memory tended
To you, but youâve lost what you know.
So why donât they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.âAs two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, heâs still and heâs silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
Thatâs where youâll go
And where youâll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
Youâre more than dust
Youâve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
Youâre last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
Theyâre buried, then
Theyâre never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
Itâs heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
Youâll join the dark
But what youâve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
Itâs never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once Iâd heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
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@Horace said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
Iâm alone in the second-floor bedroom
Iâm exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside meâ
Every night, it's been always the sameâ
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.âSo you're thinking of going?â he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
âIâm thinking of sleep,â I say, sneering
âI canât deal with your shit anymore.âWhen he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
âMy shit?â He repeats with a smile.
âMy âshit,â I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?ââJust as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!â I exclaimed
âI spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?âFor a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that Iâll never be famous
But at least some would know that I livedâKnow when âhopeâ is a splash in the toilet?
When your âcallingâ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetryâs dead as your eye!âThe world has moved onâwords are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!âI don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collectâIâm no internet-famous sensation
Iâm not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.âThe other just raises his eyebrows.
âI take it youâe finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Canât you ever express something new?âYou sound like my wife when sheâs angryâ
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
Itâs amazing you havenât gone hoarse.âMy birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping youâd prosper and grow
But Wisdomâs offended that Memory tended
To you, but youâve lost what you know.
So why donât they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.âAs two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, heâs still and heâs silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
Thatâs where youâll go
And where youâll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
Youâre more than dust
Youâve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
Youâre last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
Theyâre buried, then
Theyâre never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
Itâs heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
Youâll join the dark
But what youâve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
Itâs never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once Iâd heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
You've a white male face, bro. Might wanna rethink that last.
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Robin Hood and the Monk
âmy version, adopted heavily from the Cambridge Ff.5.48 manuscript. This was a real bitch to do.In summer, when the woods were bright
And leaves grew large and long,
The merry forest welcomed in
The sparrowsâ morning songThe deer were drawing to the dale
And left the hillocks free
And sheltered in beneath the shade
Of vaulted emerald treesWhite Sunday, when the flowers bloomed
So brilliantly in Mayâ
They rivaled dawnâs own gilded glowâ
Such was the scene that day.âA merry sight,â said Little John
âBy Christ Upon the Cross,
To find a man as half-content
Youâd all be at a loss!ââPick up your heart, my master, please,â
He ventured on to say,
âNo light is ever fairer than
The morning light of May.ââExcept Iâm troubled,â Robin said,
âIâm sorry that it shows.
Itâs time for Sunday Mass again;
Itâs there I ought to go.ââItâs been a fortnight since Iâve beenâ
Much longer than Iâd planned.
Iâll try todayâbut led, with luck
By Maryâs gentle hand.âAlong came Much, the Millerâs son,
Who took the two aside.
âSo bring a dozen merry men
And let them be your guide!
If any wished to do you harm,
Theyâd risk their suicide.ââJust one, my friend,â said Robin Hood,
âTo keep us out of sight.
So Little John shall hold my bowâ
Unless we find a fight.ââYouâll hold your own,â said Little John,
âAnd me, Iâll carry mine.
In fact, a dollar wager for the man
Who shoots the truer line.ââA dollar? No,â said Robin back
âLetâs have a little fun:
For besting me in archery,
Iâll give you three-to-one.âThey wagered once, and wagered twice
As both dared not to lose
âTill Little John had won enough
To buy new socks and shoes.Then silence grew between the two
As Robin stormed ahead
The other tried to claim his prize
When Robin turned his head.He fiercely struck at Little Johnâ
âYou cheated!â Robin roared
And Little John responded fast
By brandishing his sword.âWere you anotherâs master, Robin,
Iâd sorely make you pay.
Return to town. Go where you will.
You walk alone today.âSo Robin walked to Nottingham,
Uneasy and alone,
And Little John, to Sherwood by
The paths heâd always known.And later, once in Nottingham,
A hooded man began
To pray to Mary and to God
To see him safe again.He stepped inside Saint Maryâs church
And knelt before the Lord
And all within saw Robin Hood
Alone, save bow and sword.Across from him, a local monk
Whose head sat full and round
Identified the visitor
And quickly spun aroundHe bolted out the door and sought
The sheriff as he fledâ
Disrupting Robinâs sanctuary,
Betraying him instead.While searching all of Nottingham,
He told the sheriffâs men:
âSecure the gates and arm yourselfâ
The Thief returns again!âHe found the sheriff as he yelled,
âRise up, and fix your ears!
Surround the church with all your guards,
Your âRobin Hoodâ is here!I saw the felon there myself,
Attending Sunday mass
The failureâs yours and yours alone
If heâs allowed to pass!I know the traitor, same as youâ
He sprang and robbed me blind!
A hundred pounds he took from meâ
Itâs never left my mind.âThe sheriff nodded, thanked the monk
And smiled, now content.
He mobilized his strongest men
And to the church they went.They beat upon St. Maryâs doors
With staves dispersed and drawn
ââJust two,â I said,â spat Robin Hood,
âAnd now, no Little John!âHe drew his longsword out at once
And held it by his knee,
Then charged against the sheriffâs men
Their staves now swinging freeThrice through did Robin come at them
And those who saw it say
He wounded countless armored guards
And twelve he killed that day.His sword, upon the sheriffâs head,
Abruptly broke in two.
âThe smith that made you,â Robin said,
âDeserves to be run through!Iâm weaponless, and so I yield,
Before more blood is spilled.
(And if I ran, they barred the gatesâ
Theyâd surely have me killed.)âââââââââââââ
Within the forest, past the towns,
Beyond their field and glen,
Stood Little John, who spoke at once
Before the merry men:âOur masterâs not returned and I
Suspect heâs locked away.
But quiet! Listen up, my friends,
And hear what I would sayâHeâs served Our Lady piously;
For us, She will provide.
Because of Her, despite my fears,
I donât believe he died.So please be glad,â said Little John,
âAnd let your mourning go.
Iâll leave with Much to bring him back;
The monk? Weâll bring him low.
If Mild Mary lends Her might,
Weâll give him what heâs owed.Keep watch upon our meeting tree
And while weâre down the trail,
Bring back that summer venison
That stalks our wooded vale.âThey crossed the forest, John and Muchâ
Beyond the trees, the two
Arrived at Muchâs uncleâs house,
The highway in full view.The morning came, and from the house,
The two companions saw
The monk come riding with a Page
In the gentle light of dawn.âBy faith alone,â said Little John,
âOur luck would be this good!
The very monk weâre looking forâ
I know him by his hood!âThey joined the road, both Much and John,
And like two gentlemen
Approached the monk and little Page
As if theyâd been old friendsâFrom whereâd you come?â asked Little John.
âIâd heard a merchant say
An outlaw stalking Nottingham
Was taken yesterday.He stole from us some twenty marksâ
We wondered if you knew
Was what our friend had said of his
Incarceration true?ââA hundred pounds,â The monk replied,
âHe lifted from my purse!
Heâs captured, thanks to me alone;
Itâs I who saw him first.ââGive thanks to God!â said Little John,
âWeâd like to, if we may,
Provide you two some company
And bring you on your way.Itâs up to youâthe two of us
Arenât felons to be feared;
But Robinâs woods have many friends
and you could disappear.âHeâd gladly bear their company,
The monk told Little John.
But the king was waiting for his word,
So they continued on.John walked beside the monk awhile,
Then turned to speak. Instead,
He grabbed the horse the monk was on
And yanked him by the head.Then Much locked arms around the Page
In case he tried to stray,
As John pulled down the hefty monk
Whose horse began to bray.When Little John unsheathed his sword,
His wild eyes grew wide;
The monk, who saw his death at-hand
Fell to his knees and cried.âYou jailed my master,â shouted John,
âYour soul I see is rotten!
Youâll never meet our king. Whatâs more,
Your fate will be forgotten.âJohn slew the monk and took his head,
Dispatching him to hell,
Then Much removed the Pageâs, too,
For fear that he might tell.They stole the letters from their bags,
As swords rejoined their sheaths,
They buried both the page and monk
In shallow graves beneathWhen John appeared before the king,
He knelt upon his knee,
âMay God preserve you, lord,â he said,
âAnd Jesus save and see!âHe gave him letters that the monk
Had kept before he died
The king drew close, inspecting them
At once, and then replied:âUpon my throne, there never was
Such trouble on my mind,
Or a yeoman all throughout our land
I wanted more to find.But whereâs the monk who wrote to me?
Iâd see him, if I may.â
âMy lord, Iâm sorry,â mumbled John,
âHe died along the way.âThe king gave Much and Little John
Both twenty pounds before
He made them yeomen of the crown
Requesting one thing more:He gave to John his seal in-handâ
The sheriff, as his arm,
Shall carry Robin to the king
But none shall do him harm.Then John and Much took leave at once,
And as the stories say,
Toward Nottingham they never stoppedâ
They ran for one full day.When Little John and Much arrived,
The outer gates were barred.
They tried in vain to lift them up,
And called upon a guard:âWhat cause is there,â John asked of him,
To bar the gates so fast?â
âBecause of Robin Hood,â he said,
âIn prison now at last!âWill Scarlock, Little John and Much,
Those friends of Robin Hood,
They sometimes stalk about these wallsâ
They'd kill us if they could.âThe two produced the royal seal,
The guardsmen let them in,
And by the village square, they found
The sheriff with his men.John drew the message from the king
Removed its outer band
And with the sheriff looking on,
John placed it in his hand.The sheriff glanced upon the seal
And said, âThe monkâs not here?
But whereâs he gone?â he asked of John,
And turned so he could hear.âHeâs now an abbot,â John replied,
âAs true as I now stand:
Westminster Abbey. Ordered by
The Crown and Godâs command.âThe sheriff smiled at the two,
And treated them as guests.
By night, the group retired to
Their beds to take their rest.And later, as the sheriff slept,
Still drunk on wine and ale,
Both Little John and Much arose
To slip inside the jail.The two snuck up behind the guard:
âWake up!â said Little Johnâ
âThe bandit, Robin Hood, escaped!
Get up! You see? Heâs gone!âThe jailer readied straight away
But startled at the call,
So with a sword, John ran him throughâ
He died against the wall.âIâve been demoted to a guard,â
Said John with teasing eyes.
He took the keys to Robinâs cell
And freed him of his ties.He offered him the jailerâs sword
Which seemed to be well-kept
Then, once they scaled the village wall,
In darkness, down they leapt.That morning, when the roosters crowed
And twilight gently fell,
The Sheriff found the jailerâs corpse
And struck the common bell.âMy villagers!â he shouted out,
âIf you can hold a sword
And carry Robin Hood to me,
Youâll name your own reward!I cannot dare approach the kingâ
Our prisoner has fled!
And if he knew what happened here,
Heâd surely have my head!âHe ran to scour Nottingham,
Through every street and stall,
And Robin, back in Sherwood, smiled:
Uninjured after all.Then Little John addressed his master:
âIâve something I must sayâ
You owe a debt, but Iâve made goodâ
Repay me when you may.ââOur bitterness is now cleared up,
Again I clearly say.
Iâve brought you through our greenwood line
Now see me on my way.ââI donât accept your leave,â said Robin,
Not now, not even then!
Instead, letâs make you master of
This group of merry men.ââA fellowâs who I am,â said John,
âAnd shall I ever be.
Throughout our dark ordeal today,
Itâs clear for all to see:
A masterâs life is death delayedâ
Too dangerous for me.âThen John and Robin joined the rest
Of Sherwoodâs merry men
And when they saw him whole and sound
They cheered throughout the glen.A messenger soon told the king
A tale beyond belief:
His sheriff, bested by the men
Of Sherwoodâs master thief.But as the king began to speak,
His wrath was quickly quelled:
âThat âLittle Johnâ beguiled meâ
My sheriff fooled as well!The merry men have tricked us both
Itâs obvious to me
I ought to hang my Sheriff up
From Englandâs tallest tree.I made them yeomen of the crown,
Put money in their hands,
Then pardoned Little John and Much
Throughout my sovereign lands!What John himself contended with,
The lengths through which heâs gone,
Because he loves his master so,
Iâm calling him Saint John.And Robinâs ever in his debtâ
By stable, street and stall,
Iâll tell you this, and speak no more:
âSaint Johnâ has tricked us all.âThus ends the Story of the Monk
Except to offer this:
May Robinâs luck run ever-longâ
May Maryâs grace be his! -
@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.
Yeah, that was mine. Thanks, man.
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Fire and Ice
âRobert FrostSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what Iâve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. -
Love that.
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@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Love that.
Typical tone for ol' "Bitter Frost," but yeah, still good.